by T. S. Easton
‘Shall we try again?’ he asked. He seemed happier now and I went out with him onto the dance floor. Familiar, cheesy tunes played and I felt a lot more comfortable dancing to these, not being led, free to mix my boxing drills into the dance, feeling fit and strong. We danced in a group, roaring along with the music, the men grabbing the girls’ hands and spinning them around. I closed my eyes and lost myself in the music and the rhythms like I did at the club, step step, back back, pivot and jab. Duck roll duck roll, keep up your guard …
Then Jar Jar Binks was in front of me throwing a punch and with lightning speed I batted his hand away before lurching backwards. I tripped over someone else’s feet and went sprawling across the floor. George rushed over to help me up.
‘What did you do that for?’ he asked.
‘I was protecting myself,’ I protested. ‘He tried to punch me!’
‘He wasn’t trying to punch you,’ George said. ‘He was trying to take your hand. To spin you around?’
‘Oh,’ I said. I looked over at Jar Jar Binks, who was looking at me suspiciously and rubbing his wrist gingerly. I had smacked him pretty hard. ‘Sorry,’ I told him. George shook his head and gave me a look. But secretly I was delighted.
I’d kept my guard up.
Home Run
George and I stood on the pavement in front of my hotel. ‘Would you like to come up?’ I asked, my stomach churning. I was starting to wish I hadn’t eaten the second scotch egg I’d bought from the bar.
‘I would,’ George said, looking into my eyes. He’d been very quiet in the taxi on the ride back from the college. There was clearly something on his mind and I had a feeling I knew what it was. Our first night together. No parents. No rules. Just us. And I trusted George. I trusted him completely.
Up in the room I lowered the lights a little and looked in the mini-bar. George stood by the bed, looking nervous. ‘There’s some wine in here,’ I said. ‘Or a beer.’
‘No thanks,’ George said. ‘Look, come and sit on the bed.’
‘There’s no hurry,’ I said, suddenly feeling nervous. ‘What about a shower?’
‘Fleur,’ he said gently, taking my hand as I sat on the bed. ‘I’ve been thinking. A lot. About us.’ I could smell wine on his breath but it wasn’t unpleasant. I wanted him to lean in and kiss me. ‘I’ve been thinking about the future.’
‘Stop talking,’ I said, leaning closer. ‘I know what you want.’
‘No, this is important, Fleur,’ he said. ‘I’m … well, I … think we should break up.’
It took a moment.
‘What?’
‘We should split up, Fleur,’ he said, more assertively this time.
‘Is it because of the boots?’ I asked, before realising he wasn’t joking. This was serious. There’s a bit near the end of Rocky III where it all goes slow-motion and you just see Rocky standing there as Mr T sinks slowly down on to his knees, a look of astonishment on his face, unable to believe what has just happened. It’s quite simple really: Rocky has just punched him very hard in the face, which shouldn’t be that surprising for a boxer. But I guess it’s the way it happened, when it was least expected, that caused the surprise.
I don’t remember exactly what George and I said to each other after he said those words, though I remember us talking for a long time and voices getting louder and louder until someone in the next room banged on the wall.
‘This is about the boxing, isn’t it?’ I asked him more than once. ‘Because I’m eating a lot.’ He said it wasn’t, but I remembered the look on his face when I hoovered up Sal’s left-over food at the dinner table. I suppose I should have known that the moment he stopped playing along with my dinner-table games that it was all over. When he finally left, it was 2.47 a.m. and I was a state. He kept asking me if I was going to be OK and I kept telling him I’d be fine but in a way that made it clear that I wouldn’t be fine at all.
I took the first train the next morning. He had texted. A brief message saying he was sorry and checking how I was. I wrote about a hundred texts, each one longer than the last, deleting them all before eventually just replying with
Fine, thx.
Blossom had texted too, asking how things had gone. I messaged back suggesting we hang out on Sunday. I didn’t want to talk about it on the train. I walked up from the station and slunk into the house through the kitchen door. Ian Beale thumped his tail when he saw me but didn’t get up. Too much effort. Mum appeared and took one look at me before rushing over to give me a hug.
‘He broke up with me,’ I said, and then the tears came. The thing was, in my head I knew that it was the right thing to break up. But sometimes the rightest thing in the world can feel so wrong. I missed him already. I missed his face, his voice, the way he’d look at me exasperated when I did something stupid. I missed Date Night and the idiotic things we’d get up to. I missed the feeling that there was someone who liked me despite my flaws. But it had all been an illusion. He didn’t like me for me. He’d liked me because he thought I fitted into a neat girlfriend-shaped hole in his life.
And it turned out I didn’t fit that hole, not properly. I wasn’t neat. I was the wrong shape, inside and out.
Fish and Bicycles
‘I never did get a weekend away,’ I said to Mum the next day. ‘He told me there’d be weekends in Hove.’
‘Oh Fleur,’ Mum said softly. ‘I know it’s hard, but there are plenty more fish in the sea.’ She waved an arm towards the English Channel, which was looking decidedly murky.
‘Loads of turds too,’ I told her. We were lunching, as my mother put it, at the Grand Hotel. Not the proper restaurant of course, calm down. We were in the bistro with a view of the esplanade on one side and a family of five at the next table who were spoiling the mood, but only a bit. One of the children was throwing peas at me, but I didn’t really mind.
‘Now then,’ Mum said cheerily, ‘would you like a glass of wine?’
‘I’m in training,’ I said.
‘What for?’
I opened my mouth, but had no answer. Good question. What was I training for? What was the point of any of it any more?
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Well, let’s look at this menu,’ she said. ‘Ooh, potted shrimp.’
I really didn’t feel like choosing. My head was swirling. Fragments of the conversation, the shouting from last night. Trying to stop myself from pulling out my phone and checking to see if he’d texted.
‘What are you going to have?’ Mum asked.
Ricky would tell me to have the mixed grill. Four different kinds of protein. But then I remembered the scenes at the dinner table last night. Me scoffing everything in sight while the other girls ate like birds and nursed their wine. For the first time in months, I wasn’t hungry.
‘The salad looks nice,’ I murmured.
Blossom had been texting me all day, asking me how things had gone, so I went over when I got back from Brighton to give her the news.
‘That bastard,’ she said. ‘Oh God, I hate men.’
I shrugged. ‘He was actually quite considerate about the whole thing. Very mature, as usual. Thoughtful. And I guess I knew it was coming, deep down. That we weren’t really right for each other.’
‘He’s still a bastard,’ Blossom said. ‘Leading you on like that, then changing his mind.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m the one who changed. He didn’t sign up to be a boxer’s boyfriend.’
‘He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, Fleur,’ Blossom pointed out.
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘But he doesn’t have to hang around if he doesn’t like it either. And maybe he’s got a point. What am I doing drinking whey protein, punching bags, wearing boots to a Mess Ball.’
‘I hope you’re not thinking of giving up boxing because of some stupid boy,’ she said. ‘Rocky wouldn’t have given up.’
‘What are you talking about? He gives up in every film.’
‘But he alway
s changes his mind,’ she pointed out. ‘And comes back for one last fight.’
‘Well maybe now I’m changing my mind,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d be pleased. You’ve been trying to get me to abandon boxing since day one.’
‘Well, if you and Rocky can change your minds, then so can I,’ she said. ‘I can see you love it.’
‘Boxing’s the reason I got dumped,’ I said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Boxing is helping you understand who you really are. And it showed George who you are too. If he didn’t like that then you’re better off without him.’
‘I’m not sure if this is who I really am though,’ I said. Though I didn’t expect Blossom to know the answer to that question any more than I did. ‘I don’t even feel like myself.’
‘You don’t have to be yourself,’ she said, giving me a hug. ‘You can be anything you want. Even a boxer.’
The upside to getting dumped was that I didn’t have to have Sunday lunch at home any more. Instead, we went to Battle. There was a special event on, a procession around the battlefield which we could join in with. Blossom and I were even allowed to carry pennants. It was to mark the 1050th anniversary of the battle between Harold and Harald Hardrada at Stanford Bridge. Harold won, then he turned south to meet the Norman forces. This was an important day. Good times for Team Harold.
We held our pennants proudly; we both had strong shoulders. We were secretly pleased to see a lot of the men dropping their flags for a rest from time to time. Blossom and I held ours firmly for the whole lap. Pip was up ahead, marching with the soldiers, waving his broadsword. Blossom and I chatted as we walked. She was being very patient with me, just letting me talk it all out.
‘The thing about George was that he made me feel safe,’ I said. ‘You know? He always seemed so much older, and in charge. I never felt there was anything even vaguely threatening about him.’
‘I would think that’s the bare minimum you should want from a boyfriend,’ Blossom said. ‘You can’t give them extra points because they don’t knock you about.’
We passed a group of cheering visitors and waved our pennants at them.
‘That’s not what I mean,’ I said. ‘I’m not explaining this well. I just think that maybe some boys make you feel … like there’s a little danger there. You know? There’s a sort of thrill you get, because they’re … unpredictable? Some boys have this thing about them that makes you a bit scared and that’s sort of sexy.’
‘Hmmm, and George didn’t have this?’
‘Not at all,’ I said.
‘So who does make you feel scared sexy?’
‘Oh … no one!’
‘There must be someone. Or else you wouldn’t have mentioned it.’
‘There’s no one,’ I lied, feeling grateful that however perceptive Blossom might be, she couldn’t read minds.
Norman Wisdom
We decided to cancel film night on Friday and go to Brighton with Pip. To a Cosplay club he often went to. It was Time Travel night and Pip insisted we all dress up. Any costume from any period.
‘As long as I don’t have to be a bloody Saxon,’ Blossom said.
‘No one is going as a Saxon,’ Pip said.
‘What are you going as?’ I asked him.
‘You’ll see,’ he said, a twinkle in his eye. ‘You have to be patient though, it’s a surprise.’
On Thursday he took us down to Vintage Vicky’s to find some suitable gear. Now was the time to dress like a Victorian prostitute. I bought a long velvet dress with a frilled bodice. Blossom decided she would go as a WW1 infantry soldier. Pip found a cane and a top hat for me. Blossom wore a peaked cap and carried a realistic-looking rifle made from plastic.
Then we went back to Pip’s house to try on our new gear. Pip promised to reveal his outfit first. He ushered us into the sitting room where his gran nodded enthusiastically and said she’d go off to make a pot of tea. Pip’s gran is lovely but not the most switched-on person I have ever met. She looks a bit like Mrs Doubtfire.
‘OK, so just wait there …’ Pip said. ‘And close your eyes. I just need to go and … make some preparations.’ While we waited, Blossom was literally on the edge of her seat, legs akimbo. She was quite excited and slid off the sofa at one point. Pip’s gran came in from time to time.
‘You’re Pip’s friends,’ she said.
‘Hello, Mrs Harwood,’ we said.
‘I’ve seen you before.’
‘Yes, we’ve met loads of times,’ Blossom said.
She stood there for a while, beaming at us. We smiled back.
‘I’ll get the tea,’ she said eventually.
‘So what do you think it’s going to be?’ Blossom asked, as Pip’s gran disappeared back into the kitchen.
‘Not sure,’ I said. ‘Earl Grey? Assam?’
‘No, I mean Pip’s outfit.’
‘I don’t know,’ I sighed. ‘But it had better be good after all this build-up.’
‘CLOSE YOUR EYES NOW!’ Pip yelled from just outside the door. There was a crash of teacups from the kitchen. I closed my eyes and waited. Then I heard a clunking noise as Pip came in. ‘I expect it won’t be as exciting as you think,’ he said. ‘OK. You can open them now.’
I did so, and gasped. Pip had undergone a transformation. He had been a nervous, gangling youth in a gabardine. Now, on the carpet in front of us stood a knight in the shiniest armour you could ever see. He wore chain mail, with a gleaming steel breastplate and grieves. He carried a long sword. But the most arresting feature was the familiar, conical helmet. A helmet I’d seen recently, in Vintage Vicky’s. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing.
‘You’re a Norman?’ Blossom asked, breathlessly.
He nodded. ‘I’m a Norman,’ he whispered. He turned slowly.
‘But … but … you’re not a Norman,’ I said, disbelieving. ‘You’re a Saxon, like us.’
He didn’t reply, just kept on turning. Showing us.
‘Well I think this is amazing,’ Blossom said eventually. ‘You look brilliant, doesn’t he, Fleur? Fleur?’ I shook my head, still trying to process the momentous news. Pip looked at me anxiously.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,’ he said. ‘But I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.’
‘You can’t be a Norman,’ I repeated, my mind reeling. ‘You’re a Saxon. We’re all Saxons.’
‘I can be both,’ Pip said.
‘You can’t be both!’ I cried. ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. You’re either a Norman or a Saxon and that’s all there is to it!’
‘Don’t be so binary,’ Blossom hissed. ‘Pip, you can be whatever you want to be.’
‘I’m sorry, Fleur,’ Pip said, his voice firm. ‘I knew you would be upset. But I’ve been feeling for a long time that I just don’t fit in as a Saxon. The last re-enactment was the final straw. I don’t want to be part of the shield wall any more. I’m just not happy there.’
I took a deep breath, stood and walked towards him, fighting the urge to reach out and knock his helmet off. I could see him shaking in his armour. I stared into his eyes, looking for the Pip I knew. And he was there. Just the same. I swallowed, leaned forward and gave him a hug. The armour felt cool to the touch and I pressed my cheek to the breastplate. I was wrong. Blossom was right. There are more than two types of people in the world. There are more than two schools of thought.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You can be whatever you want to be. And whatever you are, you’ll always be my Pip.’
We looked amazing, though it was a tight squeeze getting all those accessories into the Clio. Being a Norman seemed to make Pip drive even more erratically than usual, but still just as slowly. Like Mr Toad on Mogadon. We quickly ended up with a long procession of cars behind us, unable to pass because of the narrowness of the roads and because Pip was weaving left to right. Blossom and I whooped and shrieked in the back, convinced that our costumes would protect us from anything.
We had to qu
eue for forty-five minutes outside the club but that was fine because it was great fun just watching the mad folk of Brighton dressed as Victorian vampires, or Edwardian cyborg chimney cleaners. There was one chap in military regalia with a working gramophone strapped to his back, blaring out marching tunes.
Inside, things were even more crazy. Huge, remote-controlled airships sailed lazily around the dance floor, a lady wandered around blowing enormous bubbles from a blunderbuss, I saw cave people and a Victorian Ghostbusters team, robots from the future, dinosaurs, pith helmets and lots and lots of Anne Boleyns. There was a band playing on the stage, a combined brass band/electronica fusion combo.
‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ Pip asked us, his eyes shining.
It was marvellous. And insane. Everyone looked ridiculous and that was the point, no one else cared if you didn’t fit in because nobody fitted in. You didn’t have to dress in historical gear, it seemed – there were quite a few Stormtroopers and I saw at least one zombie. It didn’t matter. Everyone was welcome here. Past, present or future. Gay, lesbian, bi, trans, queer, intersex, asexual, cis, steampunk, Stormtrooper, zombie, Saxon and Norman. And whatever the hell else.
‘This is amazing,’ I shouted into Blossom’s ear. ‘Why haven’t we come here before?’ She grinned and the three of us headed to the dance floor to join the other weirdos. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t dance. I didn’t have to remember the steps. We just leaped about, crashing into Tsarist soldiers and WW1 flying aces. Professor Elemental came on later and he was hilarious with his monkey butler and enormous trousers. It was over all too soon. Pip heard from some of his friends that there was an after-party and I was tempted for a moment before remembering I had boxing in the morning.
‘You guys go,’ I said. ‘I can get Dad to come and collect me.’
‘No, we’re staying together,’ Pip said. ‘I’m knackered anyway.’ I was pleased to hear that and we headed back through the Lanes to where Pip had left his car. It was late, but Brighton never properly goes to sleep so there were a few people around.
